My first brush with textbooks were the ones my father kept on a high shelf in the house from which he developed his school lesson plans for his junior high kids. (I remember a spanking for climbing precariously on a stool placed on a trunk to reach them at age 5. )
When little, I remember the intensity of discussions in our home. There were four of us girls only two years apart in ages, and throughout our elementary school years we were often enrolled in each others' classes in various combinations and in high school in years which electives were only held every two years, we ended up competing with each other for the highest grades in the class.
Truly, we girls were uniquely different from each other, and we absolutely never could study with each other for anything except if when we taking turns giving each other spelling words. But, there was always the intense concentration to do better than each other.
Anything we read, we had to give an opinion. I remember our discussions on biblical passages, religious themes, shortest way to Kasilof, who could curl their tongue, the validity of Kon Tiki, and Amundsen's trip to the South Pole, alternate routes up McKinley (before the more poetic Denali), Black Like Me, Up the Down Staircase, Dante's Inferno, Cartoons from the New Yorker, and Charlotte's Web.
One recurring discussion was whether or not it was wise for kids to learn to read early. Sisters argued whether we were stunted by having to wait to learn to read or not, and what would've happened if we'd attempted to figure it out on our own. As I was the eldest, our parents insisted I wait until I joined the other little Bluebirds in first grade, but there was no holding back anyone else once I'd mastered it. Pretty much we four girls all learned to read that year, and moved quite quickly beyond Dick, Jane, and silly Sally and their trip on the train to Chicago. Heck, in '64 we rode the Mooser Gooser along the coast, and would never have gotten except that the ride was over and we're going to the Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor. I guess Pa didn't want us touching his school textbooks, because he was afraid that our schoolteachers might be stymied by the time we were in school.
And, indeed, as a teacher's kid I spent a lot of time before and after school helping the librarian put away books, running off tests for class on the hectograph copier or ditto machines. I think there was a mimeograph machine, too, one could use if the copy was typed. (But, I was happy to use the new Xerox for pep band parts when it was installed in the office.) Yes, I once rolled my thumb under the revolving drum of the ditto machine to elicit a red-purple color where the blood spurted out from under the cuticle.
When there were 3 minute timed math combination tests, I was the one that got to watch the clock while the teacher stepped out Yes, after the first one and half minutes, I often lost concentration and gave an extra one or two minutes. (I was too proud to tell anyone I had no idea of how to tell time and to me it was either the long or the short hand, not that there was any difference between the hour and the second hand--which was the first and which the second hand was beyond me, and for that matter after 1.5 minutes, actually if I stared hard enough the hands started to revolve the opposite way, and so got mixed up how many times they had gone around.)
Yes, but by sixth grade, I was the one that got to stick my chewing gum on the blackboard with my nose sticking to it while everyone else did their classwork. By that age, I could not sit still at the desk if Henry and Ricky and Charles were whispering in back of me while working to finish assignments from the previous day.
Anyone remember the darkened classrooms and teacher writing on an overhead projector? Nap time. If there was reading at the desk, I had to ask permission to barricade myself in a corner. Nor, could I focus on working on the next day's assignment in class after the lecture. Math classes were usually scheduled last period. Meredith Mills and Cindy Adams always finished geometry homework during class, so they could skip off to basketball practice without a heavy rucksack and assignments to complete. Adele Powell always finished analysis assignments before we left for the day. I could never sit still long enough to do math in the presence of others.
When I brought the book home, I never remembered the way it was shown in class, and had to come up with some more intuitive way to solve the problem. For a few years before I started having brain problems, I could actually solve problems without knowing how I did it, just by letting my head do its thing. Later, after surgery, math was meticulously deductive.
Homework went home in a big cloth bag. But, after a certain age, it was difficult to even study in the house. Brothers and sisters sat around the living room table. I have pictures in my mind of one of the twins helping younger brother with math. Some times I could not even concentrate to study in the house where there was a sound. Sometimes, I had to follow the moose dropping out to the big rock in the woods (for the first could weeks after school started anyway), and other times, it was to the radio shed before Pa got home where he had all his ham operator equipment and a nice quiet if only staticky background noise, and sometimes, in a houseful of kids and parents and cats, I had to make a fortress behind my sister's bed and study in the quiet there. I still remember dry eyes after hours under hot incandescence of a study lamp.
Later, ..in assembling summer math work-outs for my children when they were in elementary grades, (had to be fun and challenging) I picked up old textbooks at library jumble sales. These old books often had a theme; practical math, technology-based, or consumer math, etc. It was a bit of a challenge to plumb the depth of 4-5 textbooks to come up with different problems illustrating a similar concept for different reasons using each different book, to provide in-depth variety and challenge on a certain theme.
English texts in the 60's were pretty standard grammar references, and the information hadn't gone out of date when I snapped up at library sales. I remember 6th grade grammar, past tense, present, future, and the complexity of different parts of a sentence. We hit the basics pretty hard in Mrs. Hildeman's class in 4th grade and everything after that was merely a different fancier layer, sometimes more esoteric than conceptual. Actually, many of the content of the study was not applicable until studying a foreign language.
Geography, yes, a terribly boring subject, best studied under the guise of non-fictional references consulted for National Geographic magazines! My husband would pick up books or videos about children in other lands, and we could often make that the focus of our learning. I think, as a blanket statement, people from other countries that move here often have a sense about a cultural place in the world and certain common themes from history than we do.
As for science text...my house as I was growing up was full of them. Since my learning style could at best be called Bohemian, I found all types of basic science discussions to the learning. I could only focus on one topic at a time, and study of any topic--started with checking out books and books, starting with beginner simple books to as in-depth as as possible to learn all about a topic such as with muscles: calcium ATP, bones, blood, Krebs cycle, voltage, potentials and electricity.
Studying science from a textbook was too lightly scattered. The encyclopedias and references were oftentimes much better than trying to read paragraph after paragraph in a science book. I remember another way we would study was to look at nature and try to find out as much as possible about it. For example the abalone shell on the dresser resulted in discussions about life cycles of mollusks, bottom fish shrimps, lobsters, and oyster beds along the East Coast, grading pearls and forming nacre, makng pearl buttons and trading on the lower Manhattan, barnacles, shipbuilding, the Theme from the Pearl-Fishers, reading The Pearl, Venus in the scallop shell and Three Graces, Shell gas, dissolving eggshells in vinegar, fluoridation, and pearlescent lighting. I think we even talked about the lustre of opals.
And, that was the way my children easily learned, too.
I don't really know how kids can stand to learn anything at all from textbooks.
In college, I tried to sell the texts back as soon as possible if it wasn't referential. Remember the data is at least 5 years old by the time it's published, and older by the time some school contracts to purchase it.
What I always had in the back of my mind for a good class textbook was a collection of pamphlets, leaflets, or journal articles to assemble in a loose-leaf folder. That style of education, is probably too labor-intensive, though, and requires a standard lecture.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Mid-February in year 10
In my attempt to capture the glassiness of the clear dripping icicles this morning long after sunrise, I felt the nip of arctic chill. I could see the brightness of winter sun shining, glaring in the clear-glass ice, but like a sundog, only the ultraviolet rays bouncing off atmospheric crystals suspended in the stratospher, there was only light, no warmth. (This is the kind of day when Hans Christian Anderson's "Little Match Girl" freezes to death outside the plum bun shop in Tromso.)
Growing up in the far north country, in my mind I return to a 15-20 mile cross-country ski trip with the Nordic Ski Club from Eagle River passing by Ft. Rich and Elmendorf AFB to Russian Jack Springs. Cold nipped then, it bit, it snuck under the top layers and penetrated the dermis, and whatever skin was exposed had to be continually oxygenated by warm moving blood or turned pale and without feeling. But, several miles along, and the outer layers had to come off for a breather, at least!
The last time I was back during winter was a winter vacation the boys and I stayed alternately with the folks in Rosemary for Remembering Christmas, and the time before that was when sister Sov died of exposure on a mid-winter climb. I went back home for the funeral with Shimp, her godson and cried every day. My husband had opinions, he always has opinions, but he was gentle this time and told me to try and not let Shimp see me so distressed and breaking down, because our boy is sensitive and it would affect him negatively and make him weak. I spent a lot of time with my head in the pillow while he was out, the first grandkid, helping understand the grief of his grandparents.
Well, it was cold today, just like February can be at Fur Rendezvous time, except generally when we were kids, we dressed for the bone-chilling weather, but here in the mid-eastern cornfields, this type of cold weather is not anticipated year after year, and I lief as soon throw on a jacket and wrap the scarf around my neck but forget a hat, and crunch in the snow in street shoes. But, unlike years in which we saw only the tan of dead grass in the yard, this was a cold year, and my husband confirmed that he saw Bambi's hoofprints when she came up from the ravine to cross our yard in the back.
When I sat down at the computer on nights earlier in winter my hands would feel like little chunks of ice. So cold. I tried to double up on the levothyroxine sometimes, thinking I'd missed a dose or maybe my metabolism was slowing, going into hibernation mode with the sunlight deficit.
I had a few plans to begin the year; plan a trip with Shimp, and possibly Jonnio, make sure husband had his visa and passport renewed so he could visit Mama-san, finish an account of our last trip, work on pharmacotherapy certification in an area of unfamiliarity, as well as organize and re-arrange our lives by swimming every day, concentrating on meals of unprocessed foods, and working to earn more money.
Well, the organisation idea took precedence, and so far, there have been a few items that have left the house in boxes for recycling, to the newsprint and aluminum can waste facility, to Goodwill, the flowershop recycles vases and could use about eight that overfilled a closet, a fish tank and filter to a school, magazines and the short pencil collection to the donation center at the public library, etc. It's been rather fun to plan a recycling run and drop off items here and there. Sometimes, it doesn't look like much has been accomplished, but with me the most of it is the organizing everything that needs to go together in one spot.
I've been trying to become more involved in the local community, too, outside my professional interests. But, I expect sometime later this summer, an opportunity will arise in which I volunteer with the county disaster readiness organization (just please, don't ask me to obtain credentials in immunizations..., just yet.)
A Church group asked just before Christmas about participating in the annual medical mission to Haiti in February, and on such short notice, I considered it and bowed out for this year, then they didn't end up going in February because it would have meant crossing the Dominican Republic by bus, and no place to stay, etc. so decided to go a little later when things are more settled. By then, I may have saved up the airfare and living expenses and received the requisite malaria and Hepatitis A. With my training and employment I've received most series, and I did get a Hep A, but doubt if I had the 6-12 month booster. I heard dengue fever was a problem, but saw no mention at a WHO website, so just will go to the local international travel clinic, a month ahead of time.
I saw big packets of flower seeds in the garden section at the supermarket. February is when thoughts turn to love, and planning for a garden. I've received several bulb, corm, and seed catalogues; Breck's among them. I like to look at them for dreaming. The reality is often a hurried chilly night in October, with the outdoor patio lighting only as I cut little holes in the compacted soil at the end of the garden and struggle to open tough plastic bags with blue flag and daffodil bulbs. And, oftentimes the reality in springtime is looking over at the edge of the ravine to where the bright yellow of my daffodils should be appearing and cursing the squirrels that seem to have found the tasty supply in fall.
Mid-February in my youth was often when Mother was baking George Washington cherry cupcakes for sibling school parties, and I was at home miserable with an earache or strep throat, staring at the hoarfrost, and gazing at long shadows on the evening wall. Cold. Nose-dripping damp. The sounds of low-volume talk radio (back then there was no MIGHTY MEGAPHONE RUSH yelling out the radio), humming and sizzle of heaters and humidifiers, and a tuck-in for warmth at night. Fur Rondy, and Arctic Winter Games, Orange Julius, and dreaming of warmer days. Remembering warmth of family times.
Growing up in the far north country, in my mind I return to a 15-20 mile cross-country ski trip with the Nordic Ski Club from Eagle River passing by Ft. Rich and Elmendorf AFB to Russian Jack Springs. Cold nipped then, it bit, it snuck under the top layers and penetrated the dermis, and whatever skin was exposed had to be continually oxygenated by warm moving blood or turned pale and without feeling. But, several miles along, and the outer layers had to come off for a breather, at least!
The last time I was back during winter was a winter vacation the boys and I stayed alternately with the folks in Rosemary for Remembering Christmas, and the time before that was when sister Sov died of exposure on a mid-winter climb. I went back home for the funeral with Shimp, her godson and cried every day. My husband had opinions, he always has opinions, but he was gentle this time and told me to try and not let Shimp see me so distressed and breaking down, because our boy is sensitive and it would affect him negatively and make him weak. I spent a lot of time with my head in the pillow while he was out, the first grandkid, helping understand the grief of his grandparents.
Well, it was cold today, just like February can be at Fur Rendezvous time, except generally when we were kids, we dressed for the bone-chilling weather, but here in the mid-eastern cornfields, this type of cold weather is not anticipated year after year, and I lief as soon throw on a jacket and wrap the scarf around my neck but forget a hat, and crunch in the snow in street shoes. But, unlike years in which we saw only the tan of dead grass in the yard, this was a cold year, and my husband confirmed that he saw Bambi's hoofprints when she came up from the ravine to cross our yard in the back.
When I sat down at the computer on nights earlier in winter my hands would feel like little chunks of ice. So cold. I tried to double up on the levothyroxine sometimes, thinking I'd missed a dose or maybe my metabolism was slowing, going into hibernation mode with the sunlight deficit.
I had a few plans to begin the year; plan a trip with Shimp, and possibly Jonnio, make sure husband had his visa and passport renewed so he could visit Mama-san, finish an account of our last trip, work on pharmacotherapy certification in an area of unfamiliarity, as well as organize and re-arrange our lives by swimming every day, concentrating on meals of unprocessed foods, and working to earn more money.
Well, the organisation idea took precedence, and so far, there have been a few items that have left the house in boxes for recycling, to the newsprint and aluminum can waste facility, to Goodwill, the flowershop recycles vases and could use about eight that overfilled a closet, a fish tank and filter to a school, magazines and the short pencil collection to the donation center at the public library, etc. It's been rather fun to plan a recycling run and drop off items here and there. Sometimes, it doesn't look like much has been accomplished, but with me the most of it is the organizing everything that needs to go together in one spot.
I've been trying to become more involved in the local community, too, outside my professional interests. But, I expect sometime later this summer, an opportunity will arise in which I volunteer with the county disaster readiness organization (just please, don't ask me to obtain credentials in immunizations..., just yet.)
A Church group asked just before Christmas about participating in the annual medical mission to Haiti in February, and on such short notice, I considered it and bowed out for this year, then they didn't end up going in February because it would have meant crossing the Dominican Republic by bus, and no place to stay, etc. so decided to go a little later when things are more settled. By then, I may have saved up the airfare and living expenses and received the requisite malaria and Hepatitis A. With my training and employment I've received most series, and I did get a Hep A, but doubt if I had the 6-12 month booster. I heard dengue fever was a problem, but saw no mention at a WHO website, so just will go to the local international travel clinic, a month ahead of time.
I saw big packets of flower seeds in the garden section at the supermarket. February is when thoughts turn to love, and planning for a garden. I've received several bulb, corm, and seed catalogues; Breck's among them. I like to look at them for dreaming. The reality is often a hurried chilly night in October, with the outdoor patio lighting only as I cut little holes in the compacted soil at the end of the garden and struggle to open tough plastic bags with blue flag and daffodil bulbs. And, oftentimes the reality in springtime is looking over at the edge of the ravine to where the bright yellow of my daffodils should be appearing and cursing the squirrels that seem to have found the tasty supply in fall.
Mid-February in my youth was often when Mother was baking George Washington cherry cupcakes for sibling school parties, and I was at home miserable with an earache or strep throat, staring at the hoarfrost, and gazing at long shadows on the evening wall. Cold. Nose-dripping damp. The sounds of low-volume talk radio (back then there was no MIGHTY MEGAPHONE RUSH yelling out the radio), humming and sizzle of heaters and humidifiers, and a tuck-in for warmth at night. Fur Rondy, and Arctic Winter Games, Orange Julius, and dreaming of warmer days. Remembering warmth of family times.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Lunch after Thanksgiving Dinner
I announced to my husband at dinner I'd volunteered our family to help serve the evening meal at the local homeless shelter Friday after Thanksgiving, after attending the monthly meeting of the health concerns advisory group at our church.
Members of the group are mostly nurses from different practice areas such as family, mental, hospice, nursing instruction, and public health. There's a pharmacist, hospital administrator, and a retired high school business teacher, too, but membership is open and could potentially include the whole parish, as everyone has health concerns.
Last year, before more immediate and urgent matters pushed one of our programs to the back burner, we were preparing an after Mass program on Advanced Directives, to better inform those entering the hospital to consider getting their home and decisions in order to facilitate others' assistance in asserting an individual's choices in the matter, long before the past governor of Alaska announced that this type of discussion about decisions ahead of time was considered part of a Death Panel. In the past, our group sponsored the parish health fair, and helped promote a Lenten Pilgrimage focusing on wholesome sacrifice and pursuit of healthful activities in anticipation of Easter, daily reading and meditation, family and social fun, daily exercise, etc., sort of a month-long exposure to a more homemade relaxed retreat and Way of Jesus.
For the most part, though, over the past couple years only a few regulars show up for the six meetings each year, so our role right now has evolved to help navigate the filling in of health-related niches that other ministries might need assistance such as providing someone in charge of the AED at the parish picnic.
This year we'll work with the health department to host a flu shot clinic on the college campus, as our students of all parishioners would probably be the most reluctant to participate. From my vantage point, however, at my job out of the county we ordered our supply early last year, and the bulk of it was distributed and administered even before the official 'flu season' began at the beginning of October. It was quite an about-face from previous years when there was leftover drug to outdate in the spring.
One concern of my director is that the giving the shots so early might require a second short by the time the regular flu shows up in February and March. I relented and got my first flu shot, ever, and told our facility's employee health nurse that it was her doing if I got the flu and died. I figured that with so much illness and virulence of viruses, I'd better build up some resistance to something before the Christmas holidays and other parts of deep winter. One year when my homelife was terribly fraught with stress and marked by lack of sleep, in my rundown state I contracted a virus which required a year of thrice weekly injections from which my endocrinologist specializing in hepatology subsequently pronounced I was 'cured'. However, it was quite a blow to be whacked by illness after enjoying a strong constitution for many years. And, so my reasoning for finally consenting to a flu shot is that a mini-flu now while I'm relatively healthy for resistance for the future, so that I remain on the front lines for when the virus makes its full presence felt.
In any case, the flu shot is over and done with. It hurt for a week or so. I don't know why, and can only think it has to do with the deep I.M. administration which helps provide prolonged depot effect. Since our area of the country received the first shipments of free H1N2 vaccination, and has started its administration I'll probably get one of those, too, as I'm in a health risk group, and the illness has struck the area.
One of the participants at out church health concerns advisory group mentioned there was a spot still open to help serve a meal after Thanksgiving Day. Folks from churches in the area take turns helping prepare and serving a nutritious meal at the city homeless shelter throughout the year. Our parish's turn comes up on the day after Thanksgiving, after Christmas, and one day in spring and late summer.
The last one I helped out was a menu of bean soup, carrot sticks, and baked cheese sandwiches. In a large soup pot, we mixed cans of prepared spicy southwestern bean soup, then added canned cooked beans, petite tomatoes and other vegetables. I was working that night so just helped with preparation The time before that we assembled and served bacon, lettuce and tomato on mayo sandwiches and fresh vegetables, for a menu suggested by a member whose affiliation with the health cabinet was not in nutrition. We had guests come back for seconds and thirds. I haven't eaten real mayo for ten years, as my digestive system can't stand it, nor the bacon, however cooking smells with its preparation were quite appetizing.
The meal organizers have directed that it must be very simple, as the intent is to provide nourishment, as well as motivation to persist in pursuit of self-care measures to find more permanent housing as well as value of home-prepared meals. So, no desserts or second course, and the drink is water. Rarely, families are involved in staying overnight, but if there were children, they would have fruits and milk.
One of the member's family has a tradition of serving meals to the homeless on Boxing Day as a tradition, special soup and bread, and all. So, she picked up that day for herself and family to prepare the church contribution.
I thought about the day after Thanksgiving still open as a day to serve, then thought about what my family's tradition consists and whether there might be conflicting plans. My family's traditions at Thanksgiving do not exist. At this time of year with both my mother's and husband's birthdays one day apart and such similar personalities that they do not get along with each other at all so poignantly that it turns into a shouting match spanning thousands of miles. Thanksgiving at my home sometimes turns out to be an anti-American political diatribe against people like my family portrayed as ugly Americans persecuting American Indians.
Sometimes, on Thanksgiving the arguments and slamming doors, and family members leaving for the rest of the day before the meal is served results in no one in attendance. I generally am conflicted with stomach cramps all day, and ask my boss to work that day. I've usually had to walk on eggshells for the week leading up to the holiday, then play the cards carefully and close if want to roast a turkey. The rest of the fixin's I've perfected to be prepared at a moment's notice. in case someone has a sudden change of heart and the game's on again.
One year we visited a state park to observe the Woodland Indians Mounds with a turkey sandwich on cranberry bread. I think McDonald's served pumpkin shakes for drive-thru dining. Another year, we all sat together for a meal that featured grilled salmon, baked potatoes, spinach salad and pumpkin pie.
One year we had sukiyaki and rice. Traditional sukiyaki is a group meal served in a heated electric skillet on the tablet so that pre-cut ingredients such as green onions, and Chinese cabbages, and yam threads can be added to a marinated meat broth, then scooped to be served over fresh bowls of rice. The 'Sukiyaki Song' has as much significance to this meal as if 'Rambling Rose' was entitled 'Beef Stew'. The Japanese song is very, very sad, especially if recalling the circumstances that made it the top J-POP song to ever hit the U.S. charts. The young singer, Kyu-chan, was a popular children's entertainer before a singing career. He was known as a plucky cheerful performer for kids always providing a positive and happy mien despite the fact that as one of the youngest in his large family (Kyu means 'nine' as he was child number 9) he was relied on to provide a sense of stability with his reliable and gifted showmanship.
His story hit his country's nerve with the knowledge that he continued to sing with boyish good cheer despite a very hard life in a large family right after atomic bombings and continued strafing. While a teen, he had a chance to perform in a national talent show which he had long prepared. YouTube captured the performance as one of the most heartwrenchingly electric public singing performances ever viewed. The song content not only is very sad and speaks of hardship, but despite nearly breaking down several times, he continues to its finish, and only afterward is it reveals Kyu Sakamoto has just come from his mother's deathbed to perform.
One year younger son and I invited a lonely friend to a meal served at the International Center. Last year, younger son was mad at the world and refused to come out of his room, when invited to drive to dear auntie's convent up north. We brought the family dog and she amused the sisters and behaved very well. My sister is always a joy to be with, and so it turned out to be a very nice time, though uneasy at the thought that younger son was on the internet all day in his teacups.
So, I volunteered for my family to help prepare and serve a meal at the homeless shelter the day after Thanksgiving. Something simple, especially if the family tide is out for the day and I end up doing all the cooking, for 20 people or so. It has to be something easy to transport, serve, and clean up.
I've thought of three ideas. One, a sweet potato casserole and Waldorf salad, or two, a sort of Beef Bowl on rice, like sukiyaki at Thanksgiving, again. Marinated strips of top round, and cooked in a broth of soy sauce and dried tuna fish shavings, and with strips of gobo root, bamboo shoots, and yam threads, slivers of carrot (non-traditional), tofu cubes, and napa. On a cold, damp autumn evening it sounds delicious. A third suggestion is mild spiced vegetable and chicken curry from the prepackaged roux at Vermont House or S & B. The third suggestion would be the easiest with precooked chickent, baby carrots, potato cubes, with apple and green pepper chunks added at the last minutes of cooking served with rice.
Well, no matter what kind of Thanksgiving meal, this year, the day after Thanksgiving should be a happy celebration. Except for the house, we could all be homeless at any instant. And, even, some of us in our homes are 'home' less. We can keep Thanksgiving in our heart in recalling the many blessings we've been given.
Members of the group are mostly nurses from different practice areas such as family, mental, hospice, nursing instruction, and public health. There's a pharmacist, hospital administrator, and a retired high school business teacher, too, but membership is open and could potentially include the whole parish, as everyone has health concerns.
Last year, before more immediate and urgent matters pushed one of our programs to the back burner, we were preparing an after Mass program on Advanced Directives, to better inform those entering the hospital to consider getting their home and decisions in order to facilitate others' assistance in asserting an individual's choices in the matter, long before the past governor of Alaska announced that this type of discussion about decisions ahead of time was considered part of a Death Panel. In the past, our group sponsored the parish health fair, and helped promote a Lenten Pilgrimage focusing on wholesome sacrifice and pursuit of healthful activities in anticipation of Easter, daily reading and meditation, family and social fun, daily exercise, etc., sort of a month-long exposure to a more homemade relaxed retreat and Way of Jesus.
For the most part, though, over the past couple years only a few regulars show up for the six meetings each year, so our role right now has evolved to help navigate the filling in of health-related niches that other ministries might need assistance such as providing someone in charge of the AED at the parish picnic.
This year we'll work with the health department to host a flu shot clinic on the college campus, as our students of all parishioners would probably be the most reluctant to participate. From my vantage point, however, at my job out of the county we ordered our supply early last year, and the bulk of it was distributed and administered even before the official 'flu season' began at the beginning of October. It was quite an about-face from previous years when there was leftover drug to outdate in the spring.
One concern of my director is that the giving the shots so early might require a second short by the time the regular flu shows up in February and March. I relented and got my first flu shot, ever, and told our facility's employee health nurse that it was her doing if I got the flu and died. I figured that with so much illness and virulence of viruses, I'd better build up some resistance to something before the Christmas holidays and other parts of deep winter. One year when my homelife was terribly fraught with stress and marked by lack of sleep, in my rundown state I contracted a virus which required a year of thrice weekly injections from which my endocrinologist specializing in hepatology subsequently pronounced I was 'cured'. However, it was quite a blow to be whacked by illness after enjoying a strong constitution for many years. And, so my reasoning for finally consenting to a flu shot is that a mini-flu now while I'm relatively healthy for resistance for the future, so that I remain on the front lines for when the virus makes its full presence felt.
In any case, the flu shot is over and done with. It hurt for a week or so. I don't know why, and can only think it has to do with the deep I.M. administration which helps provide prolonged depot effect. Since our area of the country received the first shipments of free H1N2 vaccination, and has started its administration I'll probably get one of those, too, as I'm in a health risk group, and the illness has struck the area.
One of the participants at out church health concerns advisory group mentioned there was a spot still open to help serve a meal after Thanksgiving Day. Folks from churches in the area take turns helping prepare and serving a nutritious meal at the city homeless shelter throughout the year. Our parish's turn comes up on the day after Thanksgiving, after Christmas, and one day in spring and late summer.
The last one I helped out was a menu of bean soup, carrot sticks, and baked cheese sandwiches. In a large soup pot, we mixed cans of prepared spicy southwestern bean soup, then added canned cooked beans, petite tomatoes and other vegetables. I was working that night so just helped with preparation The time before that we assembled and served bacon, lettuce and tomato on mayo sandwiches and fresh vegetables, for a menu suggested by a member whose affiliation with the health cabinet was not in nutrition. We had guests come back for seconds and thirds. I haven't eaten real mayo for ten years, as my digestive system can't stand it, nor the bacon, however cooking smells with its preparation were quite appetizing.
The meal organizers have directed that it must be very simple, as the intent is to provide nourishment, as well as motivation to persist in pursuit of self-care measures to find more permanent housing as well as value of home-prepared meals. So, no desserts or second course, and the drink is water. Rarely, families are involved in staying overnight, but if there were children, they would have fruits and milk.
One of the member's family has a tradition of serving meals to the homeless on Boxing Day as a tradition, special soup and bread, and all. So, she picked up that day for herself and family to prepare the church contribution.
I thought about the day after Thanksgiving still open as a day to serve, then thought about what my family's tradition consists and whether there might be conflicting plans. My family's traditions at Thanksgiving do not exist. At this time of year with both my mother's and husband's birthdays one day apart and such similar personalities that they do not get along with each other at all so poignantly that it turns into a shouting match spanning thousands of miles. Thanksgiving at my home sometimes turns out to be an anti-American political diatribe against people like my family portrayed as ugly Americans persecuting American Indians.
Sometimes, on Thanksgiving the arguments and slamming doors, and family members leaving for the rest of the day before the meal is served results in no one in attendance. I generally am conflicted with stomach cramps all day, and ask my boss to work that day. I've usually had to walk on eggshells for the week leading up to the holiday, then play the cards carefully and close if want to roast a turkey. The rest of the fixin's I've perfected to be prepared at a moment's notice. in case someone has a sudden change of heart and the game's on again.
One year we visited a state park to observe the Woodland Indians Mounds with a turkey sandwich on cranberry bread. I think McDonald's served pumpkin shakes for drive-thru dining. Another year, we all sat together for a meal that featured grilled salmon, baked potatoes, spinach salad and pumpkin pie.
One year we had sukiyaki and rice. Traditional sukiyaki is a group meal served in a heated electric skillet on the tablet so that pre-cut ingredients such as green onions, and Chinese cabbages, and yam threads can be added to a marinated meat broth, then scooped to be served over fresh bowls of rice. The 'Sukiyaki Song' has as much significance to this meal as if 'Rambling Rose' was entitled 'Beef Stew'. The Japanese song is very, very sad, especially if recalling the circumstances that made it the top J-POP song to ever hit the U.S. charts. The young singer, Kyu-chan, was a popular children's entertainer before a singing career. He was known as a plucky cheerful performer for kids always providing a positive and happy mien despite the fact that as one of the youngest in his large family (Kyu means 'nine' as he was child number 9) he was relied on to provide a sense of stability with his reliable and gifted showmanship.
His story hit his country's nerve with the knowledge that he continued to sing with boyish good cheer despite a very hard life in a large family right after atomic bombings and continued strafing. While a teen, he had a chance to perform in a national talent show which he had long prepared. YouTube captured the performance as one of the most heartwrenchingly electric public singing performances ever viewed. The song content not only is very sad and speaks of hardship, but despite nearly breaking down several times, he continues to its finish, and only afterward is it reveals Kyu Sakamoto has just come from his mother's deathbed to perform.
One year younger son and I invited a lonely friend to a meal served at the International Center. Last year, younger son was mad at the world and refused to come out of his room, when invited to drive to dear auntie's convent up north. We brought the family dog and she amused the sisters and behaved very well. My sister is always a joy to be with, and so it turned out to be a very nice time, though uneasy at the thought that younger son was on the internet all day in his teacups.
So, I volunteered for my family to help prepare and serve a meal at the homeless shelter the day after Thanksgiving. Something simple, especially if the family tide is out for the day and I end up doing all the cooking, for 20 people or so. It has to be something easy to transport, serve, and clean up.
I've thought of three ideas. One, a sweet potato casserole and Waldorf salad, or two, a sort of Beef Bowl on rice, like sukiyaki at Thanksgiving, again. Marinated strips of top round, and cooked in a broth of soy sauce and dried tuna fish shavings, and with strips of gobo root, bamboo shoots, and yam threads, slivers of carrot (non-traditional), tofu cubes, and napa. On a cold, damp autumn evening it sounds delicious. A third suggestion is mild spiced vegetable and chicken curry from the prepackaged roux at Vermont House or S & B. The third suggestion would be the easiest with precooked chickent, baby carrots, potato cubes, with apple and green pepper chunks added at the last minutes of cooking served with rice.
Well, no matter what kind of Thanksgiving meal, this year, the day after Thanksgiving should be a happy celebration. Except for the house, we could all be homeless at any instant. And, even, some of us in our homes are 'home' less. We can keep Thanksgiving in our heart in recalling the many blessings we've been given.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
There's snow in the Rockies; Rocky Top (TN) another day
Setting the alarm a little earlier helped immensely this Sunday morning. Normally, I always wake a few minutes before the alarm, always, no matter what the time it's set to ring. (This may be due to the fact that I'm a light sleeper, that I can hear the dog member of the family rustling in her box, or possibly I have some kind of 'internal clock' set for the prevailing time zone. I don't recall having too much trouble adjusting when our part of the state went from no daylight savings time which meant Central Time in the summer, and Eastern in the winter, or was it vice versa? Anyway, I still call ahead when I have shifts to work in the northern parts of the state or across the state line westerly to ensure I'll have that extra hour to sleep in after figuring out Mapquest travel time and the beginning of a shift. When working the east side of the state, I call to verify the time to avoid showing up an hour late! Imagining angry customer patients cursing and beating down the gate just sends a shiver of dread. But it's not the customers that I'm afraid of...the co-workers glaring with dagger eyes until we catch up with all complaints--which sometimes is not at all! Not that I have been late, but sometimes when I come in and I'm expected to know the very unfriendly computers or read the handwriting of every Tom, Dick and Harry, or arbitrate with an insurance company why someone cannot get something at such and such time for this or that price, and I know nothing, it's a shear battle of will to not turn tail and run at the first opportunity.)
I'm the only one working in my department when scheduled on Sunday mornings, so I did feel a certain amount of leeway (not having to be there a certain time to unlock the door for my co-worker, though she does have a key, though the state doesn't know, and what the state doesn't know, then we'll just count on having an official reason for being here at certain time, eh?)
When I talked with birthday Jims who lives farther north, he expressed surprise about sunrise and sunset times compared to where my family lives in the mideastern part of the country(relatively speaking--though many on the eastern seaboard might might say we're in the midwest. A childhood in the far north, and acute awareness of geographical location of various parts of this grand country, it's probably past time for a more realistic acceptance of updated colloquialisms, much along the line of accepting the logic of widely adopting the metric system--However, we sometimes get our panties in a wad over the most provincial kinds of issues!) Jims was wondering what time it starts to get dark here and when the sun comes up. Of course, it's much different than the land of youth, nearly 20 hours of daylight at summer's height, and sunrise mid-morning in winter. Our siblings participated in marathons running up (and down) the sides of mountains at midnight. Fancy having to wait until 23:00 to see 4th of Juy fireworks off Fire Island in the inlet! Jims lives at a somewhat of a similar latitude than when we were kids, but my family is much farther south. Here, we grow pumpkins, and squash, and corn, for Pete's sake! Summer warmth, along the westward oceanside and Jimsy can grow chestnuts, peaches and apples. But, when we were kids, despite the actual length of summer sunlight, it was not warm enough for more than a potato and cabbage patch (cabbage leaves to cover your head), peas, and zucchini, and wild berries.
So, in rising earlier this morning, I had time to post e-mails to family members, 'where's your bike? I didn't see it on the porch when I got up this morning' and 'drop by Monday night for curry, if you're so inclined', and leave a postcard at younger son's college dorm, as well as stop by the side of the road for photos of the magnificent sunrise at 08:00.
And, so it was; beautiful and poignantly brief, but evolving into daylight before my eyes. Pink, greyish purple (from impending stormy action this afternoon--red sky at morning sailor take warning), pure golden rays through the clouds, the special quality of early sunlight highlighting the sharply outlined cornstalks in a farmer's field. (It's a very inexpensive digital and details may not show up, but capturing images helps to recall the clarity of vision I felt this morning out of my own retinal photoreceptors.)
I was 4 minutes late, a rarity, usually 15-20 minutes earlier than expected when I have my own choice in the matter (a situation sometimes occurring when 'other' people are involved in decisions about fixing breakfast of tea and toast or cinnamon rolls and scrambled eggs, ensuring someone is up in time for something, or the dog member has an inclination to dilly-dally, etc. I know, I know, I should always anticipate those issues and get up even earlier, no more of this timing to the minute lifestyle I've maintained since age 14 (which used to drive my mother bonkers when everyone was in the vehicle ready to leave for 08:00 Mass --we always got there at least 15 minutes before the service (I remember arriving so early to other events with my family under the unwavering guidance of Mother that we sometimes had to help set up for the event--arrange chairs, etc. but I was still usually still finishing with a shower, when everyone else was ready to leave--always arriving with wet hair). So, this morning, I figured that since I was the only one there, I'd even stop for coffee in the cafeteria before arriving to the department and start the morning's work with some real bright-eyed bushytail!
When I got to the workstation, washing my hands at the sink before starting work, I looked out of the window at the gas station across the street (it's an endless source of amusement to watch daily, hourly gas price updates--actually a little amazement thrown in considering how earlier in presidential primary campaigns last year one or two candidates were 'guaranteeing that they could do something about setting the prices--like a Queen or King). It was already yellowy sun streaming from the east; I felt blessed in some way that I'd been able to take time to record a gorgeous mid-October sunrise on the way in to work this weekend. A delusion or whether the camera recorded what I saw in my mind's eye, we'll see later at the photo shop, but for now... get back to work! The surgery nurse has come by to restock her emergency cart for two STAT D & Cs and a Caesarean-section. They've been busy, and it's time for me to finish, too.
I'm the only one working in my department when scheduled on Sunday mornings, so I did feel a certain amount of leeway (not having to be there a certain time to unlock the door for my co-worker, though she does have a key, though the state doesn't know, and what the state doesn't know, then we'll just count on having an official reason for being here at certain time, eh?)
When I talked with birthday Jims who lives farther north, he expressed surprise about sunrise and sunset times compared to where my family lives in the mideastern part of the country(relatively speaking--though many on the eastern seaboard might might say we're in the midwest. A childhood in the far north, and acute awareness of geographical location of various parts of this grand country, it's probably past time for a more realistic acceptance of updated colloquialisms, much along the line of accepting the logic of widely adopting the metric system--However, we sometimes get our panties in a wad over the most provincial kinds of issues!) Jims was wondering what time it starts to get dark here and when the sun comes up. Of course, it's much different than the land of youth, nearly 20 hours of daylight at summer's height, and sunrise mid-morning in winter. Our siblings participated in marathons running up (and down) the sides of mountains at midnight. Fancy having to wait until 23:00 to see 4th of Juy fireworks off Fire Island in the inlet! Jims lives at a somewhat of a similar latitude than when we were kids, but my family is much farther south. Here, we grow pumpkins, and squash, and corn, for Pete's sake! Summer warmth, along the westward oceanside and Jimsy can grow chestnuts, peaches and apples. But, when we were kids, despite the actual length of summer sunlight, it was not warm enough for more than a potato and cabbage patch (cabbage leaves to cover your head), peas, and zucchini, and wild berries.
So, in rising earlier this morning, I had time to post e-mails to family members, 'where's your bike? I didn't see it on the porch when I got up this morning' and 'drop by Monday night for curry, if you're so inclined', and leave a postcard at younger son's college dorm, as well as stop by the side of the road for photos of the magnificent sunrise at 08:00.
And, so it was; beautiful and poignantly brief, but evolving into daylight before my eyes. Pink, greyish purple (from impending stormy action this afternoon--red sky at morning sailor take warning), pure golden rays through the clouds, the special quality of early sunlight highlighting the sharply outlined cornstalks in a farmer's field. (It's a very inexpensive digital and details may not show up, but capturing images helps to recall the clarity of vision I felt this morning out of my own retinal photoreceptors.)
I was 4 minutes late, a rarity, usually 15-20 minutes earlier than expected when I have my own choice in the matter (a situation sometimes occurring when 'other' people are involved in decisions about fixing breakfast of tea and toast or cinnamon rolls and scrambled eggs, ensuring someone is up in time for something, or the dog member has an inclination to dilly-dally, etc. I know, I know, I should always anticipate those issues and get up even earlier, no more of this timing to the minute lifestyle I've maintained since age 14 (which used to drive my mother bonkers when everyone was in the vehicle ready to leave for 08:00 Mass --we always got there at least 15 minutes before the service (I remember arriving so early to other events with my family under the unwavering guidance of Mother that we sometimes had to help set up for the event--arrange chairs, etc. but I was still usually still finishing with a shower, when everyone else was ready to leave--always arriving with wet hair). So, this morning, I figured that since I was the only one there, I'd even stop for coffee in the cafeteria before arriving to the department and start the morning's work with some real bright-eyed bushytail!
When I got to the workstation, washing my hands at the sink before starting work, I looked out of the window at the gas station across the street (it's an endless source of amusement to watch daily, hourly gas price updates--actually a little amazement thrown in considering how earlier in presidential primary campaigns last year one or two candidates were 'guaranteeing that they could do something about setting the prices--like a Queen or King). It was already yellowy sun streaming from the east; I felt blessed in some way that I'd been able to take time to record a gorgeous mid-October sunrise on the way in to work this weekend. A delusion or whether the camera recorded what I saw in my mind's eye, we'll see later at the photo shop, but for now... get back to work! The surgery nurse has come by to restock her emergency cart for two STAT D & Cs and a Caesarean-section. They've been busy, and it's time for me to finish, too.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The pumpkin patch
Driving along Sugar Creek, I pointed out excitedly an authentic pumpkin patch. Large orbs of yellow orange lying amongst fallen leaves, attached to the earth by spindly vines. Pumpkins in a field bare of high-grown grasses or other grains this area of the country is famous. Just big, big pumpkins.
The part of the country where we live grows pumpkins like no one's business. When I first moved here with my family, crisp autumn air brought not only brilliantly clear and cool skies, but the smell of moldy decomposing leafy matter kicked up in a walk in the woods, (a damp dripping nose as airborne ragweed pollens trigger the hypersensitivity of immune systems), shades of crimson, umber and brown, as well as various hues of orange from gold to dross of tarnished brass.
And, bats, there are bats here, too. They live in the belfry of the little brick church down around the corner. When my husband walks in the evening they exit in flocks (or whatever a gaggle of flying mammals is called) in a group to the night sky. Patients come to the E.R. at this time of year looking for rabies vaccine often when left they've left a screen window open at night and wake in the morning to stare one unexpectedly in to eye while brushing teeth. It's the subsequent inadvertent broken leg from tripping over furniture or jumping out a two-story window that brings the patient into the E.R., though, and on further questioning, when the subject of possible contact with bat spit, then it's Pharmacy's job to obtain the costly rabies immunoglobulins and first of the vaccination series.
Pumpkins are fascinating as one realizes so many varieties in all shapes and sizes belong to the larger family of squashes and gourds, genus cucurbita. Pumpkins as members of the cucurbitaceae family include cousins such as muskmelons (which grow in wide abundance in the southern part of the state) to cucumbers, and gourds. Differences in taste among these family members are often attributed to textural differences, the cool smoothness of cucumbers, and pickles contrasted to warm chunkiness of boiled and subtly sweetened pumpkin mash.
Like the sweet potato or yam, texture and taste differences are as subtle as the seasonings used in food preparation. Sometimes it seems the difference between sweet potato and pumpkin pie could be attributed to a set of different growing conditions for either one. In any case, I have found pureed pumpkin an adequate substitute in pumpkin bread, pumpkin chiffon cheesecake, and pumpkin pie, not so much, though, for entering into a pumpkin carving contest. However, a recipe I made up for a Knox Blox type of gelatinous food item with melted gelatin in hot skim milk and mixed with vanilla fat-free yogurt or fat-free pudding, pumpkin puree, and gently folded into a frozen whipped cream is a guiltless substitute for any time of the year pie.
At one time, there were concerns about overdoing Vitamin A intake (I was the one at carrot harvest time when a steady diet of sweet tender baby carrots caused a slight skin tinge.) With liver problems there's always concern about taxing its ability to metabolize common nutritional components, and Vitamin A is a fat-soluble vitamin which means its storage is in fatty tissues, slowing passage to liver metabolism, and attendant risk of accumulation. Hyper vitaminosis of the A vitamin occurs when maximal stores in the liver are exceeded, and can result in toxicities and even death, as I recall, from Goodman and Gilman's pharmacology text... and, since the vitamin is in a fat cell, its retrieval is not readily available.
Evidently most members of the squash family have no problem with propagation here. I heard stories of the uninvited guest. Suddenly, overnight, brown paper bags filled with zucchini show up on the stoop, on the porch, and you trip over them on the doorstep. Neighbors take orders for fresh sweet corn, and co-workers bring from home to share their perfect little red globes of summer sunshine. (This area is known as the ketchup capitol of the world, also for popcorn, and farming soybeans, the ones not generally for human consumption. But, on the otherhand, there is a sizable portion of the pumpkin crop that make their stand as a Hallowe'en decoration, and no where near a pie crust.)
It's time once again to reminisce about reciting odes to autumn 'when the frost is on the punkin' by Jimmy Boy Riley and Mama Mama Huckabuck, Jonas Jonas Huckabuck and their daughter Pony Pony and the great silver buckles found in golden pumpkins. "... a sign; it is a signal... ...a buckle, a slipper buckle, a Chinese silver slipper buckle... our luck is going to change. Yoo hoo! Yoo hoo!"
The part of the country where we live grows pumpkins like no one's business. When I first moved here with my family, crisp autumn air brought not only brilliantly clear and cool skies, but the smell of moldy decomposing leafy matter kicked up in a walk in the woods, (a damp dripping nose as airborne ragweed pollens trigger the hypersensitivity of immune systems), shades of crimson, umber and brown, as well as various hues of orange from gold to dross of tarnished brass.
And, bats, there are bats here, too. They live in the belfry of the little brick church down around the corner. When my husband walks in the evening they exit in flocks (or whatever a gaggle of flying mammals is called) in a group to the night sky. Patients come to the E.R. at this time of year looking for rabies vaccine often when left they've left a screen window open at night and wake in the morning to stare one unexpectedly in to eye while brushing teeth. It's the subsequent inadvertent broken leg from tripping over furniture or jumping out a two-story window that brings the patient into the E.R., though, and on further questioning, when the subject of possible contact with bat spit, then it's Pharmacy's job to obtain the costly rabies immunoglobulins and first of the vaccination series.
Pumpkins are fascinating as one realizes so many varieties in all shapes and sizes belong to the larger family of squashes and gourds, genus cucurbita. Pumpkins as members of the cucurbitaceae family include cousins such as muskmelons (which grow in wide abundance in the southern part of the state) to cucumbers, and gourds. Differences in taste among these family members are often attributed to textural differences, the cool smoothness of cucumbers, and pickles contrasted to warm chunkiness of boiled and subtly sweetened pumpkin mash.
Like the sweet potato or yam, texture and taste differences are as subtle as the seasonings used in food preparation. Sometimes it seems the difference between sweet potato and pumpkin pie could be attributed to a set of different growing conditions for either one. In any case, I have found pureed pumpkin an adequate substitute in pumpkin bread, pumpkin chiffon cheesecake, and pumpkin pie, not so much, though, for entering into a pumpkin carving contest. However, a recipe I made up for a Knox Blox type of gelatinous food item with melted gelatin in hot skim milk and mixed with vanilla fat-free yogurt or fat-free pudding, pumpkin puree, and gently folded into a frozen whipped cream is a guiltless substitute for any time of the year pie.
At one time, there were concerns about overdoing Vitamin A intake (I was the one at carrot harvest time when a steady diet of sweet tender baby carrots caused a slight skin tinge.) With liver problems there's always concern about taxing its ability to metabolize common nutritional components, and Vitamin A is a fat-soluble vitamin which means its storage is in fatty tissues, slowing passage to liver metabolism, and attendant risk of accumulation. Hyper vitaminosis of the A vitamin occurs when maximal stores in the liver are exceeded, and can result in toxicities and even death, as I recall, from Goodman and Gilman's pharmacology text... and, since the vitamin is in a fat cell, its retrieval is not readily available.
Evidently most members of the squash family have no problem with propagation here. I heard stories of the uninvited guest. Suddenly, overnight, brown paper bags filled with zucchini show up on the stoop, on the porch, and you trip over them on the doorstep. Neighbors take orders for fresh sweet corn, and co-workers bring from home to share their perfect little red globes of summer sunshine. (This area is known as the ketchup capitol of the world, also for popcorn, and farming soybeans, the ones not generally for human consumption. But, on the otherhand, there is a sizable portion of the pumpkin crop that make their stand as a Hallowe'en decoration, and no where near a pie crust.)
It's time once again to reminisce about reciting odes to autumn 'when the frost is on the punkin' by Jimmy Boy Riley and Mama Mama Huckabuck, Jonas Jonas Huckabuck and their daughter Pony Pony and the great silver buckles found in golden pumpkins. "... a sign; it is a signal... ...a buckle, a slipper buckle, a Chinese silver slipper buckle... our luck is going to change. Yoo hoo! Yoo hoo!"
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